A Very Supernatural Musical!
by WeeTubaGirl
Summary: Sam, plagued by visions of Lucifer, and Dean, tormented by his brother's madness, are back on the road again, eager to find a case. But when they start investigating strange deaths in a small Ohioan town, they quickly realise the task ahead of them will be difficult - after all, it's hard to kill a monster when you have to do it in song! (Set in S6)
1. Chapter 1

Settling into the bed, Sam closed his eyes and tried to stay calm. Deep breaths. Think of the sea, of dogs running up and down the golden sand. Let your mind drift…He wriggled about on the covers, pushing an arm up under one of the pillows and twisting onto his side. Sleep. Oh, blessed sleep. He could feel himself falling, floating, rising into that blissful, beautiful state of nothing that he had missed for so long…

"Sammy. Psst. Sam. Hello?" Sam kept his eyes closed. Something touched the back of his foot. It felt like smooth and rubbery, like the antenna of some alien beast.

"Sam. Wake up. Come on, buddy. You've already slept for half an hour. That's enough, right?" The thing touched his foot again and Sam squirmed despite himself, pulling his feet further up the bed. Drift, come on, fall, float, just escape the world for five minutes…

"Sam. Get up."

There was a sharp stabbing pain in his foot and Sam jerked awake to see a beetle the size of dog at the end of his bed, pincer stained red with his blood, his foot a shredded mess of tissue and toenail, and Lucifer was standing there, grinning, his hand on the beetle's head and he was talking to it, a low whisper and then it reared and-

"Sam, look what I got at the store." Dean sauntered into the motel room and the beetle vanished, leaving Sam to pant and panic at thin air, grasping his foot with trembling hands. Lucifer smiled wryly and sat down on a chair, picking his teeth with a long fingernail.

"Sam?"

"Huh? Oh. Right. Yeah." Sam let go of his foot – thankfully intact – and pushed himself upright, rubbing his eyes. Two days on two hours sleep. Lucifer was enjoying himself, Sam could tell that at a glance from the way he grinned and rolled and invented more elaborate forms of torture. Dean shot him a look as he sat the bag he held loosely in his hand onto the table. Sam forced a smile to his lips. "Pie?"

"Not just any pie." With a flourish, Dean reached into the bag and pulled out a plain plastic container, "Mrs Campbell's apple pie, made fresh." He smiled and sat the pie on the table. "You want a slice?"

Sam shook his head. "No. It's fine."

"Suit yourself. Find anything interesting?" Dean said, nodding at the laptop and the pile of newspapers piled on his bed.

"Eh, yeah, actually." Sam hauled himself off the bed and tried to ignore Lucifer doing the Macarena in the corner, thrusting at Dean whenever he got to close. Shuffling through the newspapers, he pulled one out and flicked to the right page. "A town named Athens in Ohio has been having some weird deaths recently. Here, listen to this – 'Mr Katsaros, 65, was found dead in his home on Saturday. Cause of death is mysterious, but witnesses to the scene describes his feet as 'bloody stumps' and his throat as 'red raw and oozing blood.'"

"Lovely."

"I know, but I did a little digging. Turns out Mr Katsaros isn't the first person to have died that way – there've been a rash of killings just like it over the course of a decade. Twenty people, all with feet, lung, heart and throat injuries." Sam glanced up at his brother – he was eating pie, oblivious to Lucifer giving him an alluring lapdance and licking his cheek. "What d'ya think?"

"Sounds like something, though I'm not sure what." Dean swallowed a mouthful of pie and then closed the container again, standing up as he did so. "Grab the bags. We might as well go now."

Sam bent down and felt around under the bed for the stained fabric of their kit bags. The rubbery beetle ran under his hand, the antennae winding around his palm. "Come on, Sam, just talk to me. Pleeeaaaasssee." Lucifer poked his head out from under the bed, his eyes wide and his mouth pulled into a frown. "Sammy, talk to me. I miss out little chats."

"Later," Sam hissed, pushing the beetle out the way and grabbing the handles of the bag. He yanked them out, through Lucifer's head, and sat them on the bed. "Just leave me alone for five minutes, ok?"

"Ahem." Sam turned around and saw Dean standing with his leg cocked to the side, car keys in one hand, plastic bag in the other. His brow was furrowed, valleys of worry carved into his forehead and around his mouth. His eyes – deadened since his time in Hell, even more so since Sam took the trip – darted across Sam's face with anxiety. "You ok?"

Sam glanced down, and let out a slow sigh of relief. "Yeah, I'm fine. Come on, it's nearly a day's drive," he said, grabbing the laptop and the newspapers from Dean's bed, "We need to go."

Dean held his eyes for a moment, troubled, and then shrugged, turning away and opening the door. Rays of sunlight poured through moody looking clouds, illuminating the motel parking lot in a dark glow. Oxymoron. Sam smiled at the word, remembering it from his college days. Two things that shouldn't go together, and yet somehow do. Dark glow. Deafening silence. Organised chaos. He had felt all of them at one point, all the darkness and the light, the good and the bad, the demons and the angels. He wondered where Cas was, whether he'd ever get to see him again. He didn't mind the thought – Cas was great, but they had never really clicked – but he worried for Dean sometimes. No matter how much he pretended to be strong and independent, Sam knew that he couldn't live without his brother and that gangly, awkward angel in a trench coat. Dean and Cas, oxymorons in their own right, worked well together. The angel and man, the light and the dark. Of course, now they were both charcoal shades of grey.

"You coming?"

"Yeah, sorry." Sam stepped into the relative heat of the Texan morning, closed the door behind him, and made for the sleek black car sitting outside the room. He was vaguely aware of Lucifer walking behind him, grinning like a madman and stroking the beetle from under the bed. Without thinking, he pressed a thumb onto the curve of his palm, feeling the rough edges of a scar and the warm glow of relief as Lucifer and his monstrous pet flicker out of existence. Five minutes. That's all it would buy him, the precious trick of the hand, but it would be enough.

Sliding into the car seat beside his brother, he waited for the soft purr of the engine to send him to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

"Mrs Katsaros-"

"Please, call me Andrea."

Sam smiled politely, his hand still poised over the notebook. "Andrea, can you tell us exactly what happened to your husband?"

The women in front of them looked down at the ground, clasping her wrinkled hands in her lap. "I've already spoken to the police about this. Do I-"

"This is just fact-checking, mam. Just making sure we all the pieces of the puzzle before we try and fit them together."

"Right. Well…" The woman trailed off and looked out the window, her eyes glazed with sadness. Sam felt sorry for her, like he did all the grieving widows they interviewed, but he couldn't help but feel a little annoyed at her and her slowness. He glanced at Dean, who looked simultaneously bored and infuriated. Sam had inherited his mother's patience; Dean, not so much.

A minute of silence passed. Sam coughed, and Andrea jumped back to life again. "Sorry, sorry," she said, rouge reaching her cheeks. "I've been a little off since Michael passed away. You were asking what happened?" Dean nodded. "It was me who found him. I came in from a walk round the park with some old girlfriends, and there he was, lying spread-eagled in the dining room. At first I thought he was only joking, playing a trick on me – he liked to do that, he always was a bit of prankster – but then I got nearer and he-there was-" She cut off, pressing a hand to her mouth and shaking her head. Sam jotted down some notes.

"The police said that his feet, throat and lungs were irreparably damaged. Is that correct?"

"Oh, yes. He didn't even have any feet left. They were just bloody stumps. And his throat…"

"Did your husband have any enemies?" Dean asked, leaning forward on his seat.

"W-What? No, no, Michael was a good man. Paid his taxes, loved me and the kids dearly, best friends with everyone. Are you suggesting that this could have murder?"

Sam smiled again and stood up, stashing the notebook in his pocket. "Just looking at all the options. Thank you, Mrs Katsaros, and if you think of anything else, anything at all, don't hesitate to give us a call." With a well-practiced flourish, he pulled a fake business card from his suit jacket and handed it to her, the reassuring smile still on his face. He tapped Dean on the arm and they walked out the house together, strides matched, faces grim and determined.

The moment they cleared the front door, Dean started talking. "So, what d'ya think? Witch?"

Sam shrugged. "Could be. I didn't notice any hex bags floating around, and besides, he apparently had no enemies."

Sighing, Dean kicked a stone with his shoe. "Sam, we've interviewed every person in this town who was ever connected to any of the victims. Men, women, teenagers, blacks, whites, farmers, CEOs – they have nothing in common, other than the fact they all had exploding body parts. I mean, a very violent spirit maybe, but they usually have MOs, which this…thing doesn't. I can't think of anything else."

"But witches are more or less human. They don't kill unless they have a reason too and they don't seem to have a motive here. Besides, we combed the Eugenides place, and there were definitely no hex bags floating around. It wasn't a witch."

Dean threw up his hands. "Fine. Let's hit the books. Again."

Sam didn't reply, and the conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence, disturbed only by the rush of traffic and the general rumble of life. The motel was in the centre of town, a cosy little place with a kindly old man as a receptionist, and the town itself was so small the Impala was hardly needed – anywhere they needed to go, they walked. The heat was like a hug, warm and soft and strangely intimate, wriggling into the tight spaces under Sam's armpits and snuggling up to his collarbone. He loosened his tie. Someone slammed the door of a nearby diner; people on the street shot him disapproving looks.

"So, how's the whole "Satan is my roommate" thing going?"

Sam glanced at his brother. "Casual," he said, raising his eyebrows before shaking his head. "It's going fine. I mean, he was dancing along to ABBA in the old lady's house, and making out with the pictures of her dead husband, but other than that, fine."

"Right." He paused. "Ok." Another moment's silence. "Any idea on how to get rid of him?"

"Really? Do you think if I knew how to get him out my head, I'd not have done it already?"

"Aw, but Sam," Lucifer whined in the background, "You love me. I know you do. Deep deep deep down, in that black, crusty heart of yours, you love me."

Ignoring him, Sam shook his head. "I'd do anything to make him shut up. Anything."

"I know. Bobby's still looking. If I can help, let me know."

"I will."

Silence again. They turned a corner and the motel came into sight, its air conditioning a low murmur in the whispered breeze. It took less than a minute for them to reach it, to stride past the Impala and put the key in the lock. Sam headed for his laptop; Dean, predictably, for his pie. This was the part that Sam loved and loathed – the research. Hours spent trawling through internet sites, stumbling over piles of bullshit spread by pre-pubescent boys with too much times of their hands, struggling through ancient texts and modern chatboards, and for what? Usually, for nothing. Sometimes, for a tiny scrap of information. The fruit of his labour was a word or two, which could be run through google and pressed and squeezed and excavated until finally, it would be there, the gleaming key to success; the name of the monster and how to kill it.

He started how he usually did; combing the town's history for violent deaths, unsolved murders, that sort of thing. He doubted that they were hunting a ghost, but there were other spirits born from agony that weren't as picky with their food. Opening google, he typed in the town's name and started trawling through the results. Dean munched noisily on pie in the background; Lucifer relaxed on one of the beds, clicking his teeth together every couple of seconds. After a minute or so, Sam glanced at Dean, his eyes narrowed. "Do you notice anything strange about this town?"

"Other than the corpses?" Dean asked, wiping pastry crumbs from the corners of his mouth.

"Think about it – Athens, Katsaros, Andrea, Eugenides. Any of them, I don't know, connected?"

Dean paused, furrowing his brow. "They're all Greek, aren't they?"

Nodding, Sam turned back to the laptop and started scrolling down a page. "It turns out this town has one of the highest percentages of Greek immigrants in the country. An entire town came over on a ship in the late 1800s, planning to settle in New York, but when they got there, they realised it was too crowded, so they journeyed west and set up shop here."

"So, what, you think they could have brought a spirit over with them?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe."

"Well, that narrows the search field. Just search up Greek monsters and pick one that matches."

"It's not that easy, Dean. Greek mythology is the most varied and diverse in the world. They have hundreds of gods, nymphs, monsters, demi-gods – and every single one of them has turned nasty at one point." Sam sighed. "It's going to take a while."

"Goody," Dean said, clapping his hands together. "Well, get changed, grab the laptop and we can look stuff over in the local diner. Change of scenery and big fat burgers."

"Dean, you just ate a whole pie."

"So? I'm a grown man, a warrior. I need 5000 calories a day, Sammy, else I'll waste away." He shot Sam a grin and grabbed his civilian clothes from the end of the bed, striding to the bathroom and closing the door. Sam closed the laptop and began pulling on his own clothes, trying to avoid Lucifer's roving eyes.

"Do you mind?" he said quietly, pulling on his pants.

"Me?" Lucifer looked around the room, his hand arched on his chest. "You aren't talking to one of your other imaginary friends, are you?"

"Don't be a wiseass."

"Or what? You'll hit me? That would be hilarious, a knock-out blow to your own head. Or worse, you throw a punch at thin air and Dean gets all worried again. I do admire you, Sam, all those beautiful little lies about how you're fine, how I'm not that annoying, how you're looking for a way to get me out of your little head…"

"Shut up," Sam hissed, whipping round and glaring at the bed. Lucifer was slumped against the wall, his blond hair tousled, his hands clasped on his round belling.

"Touchy. All I'm saying is that you stopped looking a few weeks ago, and let's face it, that little scar on your hand is getting weaker and weaker every day. Tomorrow it'll buy you five minutes, the next day four, the next day three, and before you know it we'll be permanent buddies. Better get used to me." He paused. "Nice abs, by the way. Do you work out?"

"Shut up!" There was a noise from the bathroom and Sam glanced up, frozen where he stood. That was louder than he meant it to be. Taking a deep breath, he pulled on a shirt and glared at Lucifer. "Just shut up, ok?"

"Okay, chump, fine by me."

Dean emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a khaki shirt and a pair of old jeans. He looked at Sam, squinting. "You ok?"

"Yeah, fine. Let's go." Grabbing his laptop and shrugging on a jacket, Sam stoically avoided Dean's eye and headed out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

The diner was a the usual small-town affair – cosy, with red booths and tarnished mirrors on the walls, the air thick with the stink of frying oil, the salty tang of fries, and the collective chatter of the town. Gossip permeated the walls; Sam could almost feel the pregnancies, the affairs, the run-away brides, the murders and the suicides, clinging to the walls like grease. It was the same everywhere they went. The diner, that oft forgotten den of mischief and secrets.

They pulled into a booth and sat down on the sagging leather seat, choosing, as usual, the seats far away from counter and closest to the door. The place was almost empty, bar a few bored looking waitresses and one or two truckers digging into meaty mountains of gristle and oil. The sight of it made Sam feel ill. Shifting in his seat, he sat the laptop on the table and began browsing again, scrolling through sites and flicking from tab to tab with a strange grace and dexterity. Opposite, Dean poured over the menu. "Hey, Sam, you wanting anything? I think I'm going to get the double bacon cheeseburger."

"Yeah, yeah, good," he muttered absentmindedly, typing again.

Dean leaned across the table, putting the menu down and lowering his voice. "From the glazed look on your face, I'll assume you've got something. Want to clue me in?"

"W-what? Oh, right. No, nothing. But I found this," he swivelled the laptop round, reading Dean's face as his eyes drifted over the words. "Looks promising. I mean, they fit the Greek thing, and they seem pretty violent in some of the later stories…"

"Harpies? Really? I think there'd be some feather scattered around, and the locals would have noticed some freaky-ass bird wandering around. Besides, it says here they "carry their victims to the Erinyes," whatever they are."

"The Furies, Dean. They work in Hades, torturing, killing, forcing wrongdoers to repent, that sort of thing."

Putting his hands up in mocking surrender, Dean scoffed. "Right there, Dante. Well, maybe they could be our perp."

"I don't know, they don't seem like-"

"Greek mythology?" a honey-like voice asked, making Sam jump. It was one of the waitresses, a lithe girl with the olive skin of a Greek native and waterfall of flowing black hair. Dainty nails painted dark blue clutched a notepad and a pen; the other hand was hidden in her overalls, but Sam saw it was tightly clenched beneath the fabric. She smiled, showing a mouth too full of teeth and gums slightly too pink to be attractive. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she said, touching the table delicately with one hand. From the corner of his eyes, Sam could see Dean slicking back his hair and grinning like an idiot; he kicked him under the table. "It's just, well, sorry, nevermind…"

"No, no, it's fine," Sam said before Dean could reply with some lewd comment. "We're doing some research for our local newspaper."

"Well, you choose a good town to do it!" She laughed, and there it was those too big teeth, that too full mouth. Sam glanced away, a little repulsed. It didn't seem right, that many gleaming white tombstones sitting on rosy hills. "I'm sure you've realised already that this town is quite Greek-centric."

"Really?" Dean said before Sam could answer. "I'm sure you could tell us all about it."

She laughed again and, much to Sam's annoyance, Dean joined in with a loud chucking, occasionally throwing a look across the table. "I don't know much about that. If you don't mind me asking, what research is it?"

"Greek mythology. Sam and I are very interested in mythology, aren't we, Sammy?"

"Yes, I guess we are."

For a moment, something in the woman's face shifted and her hand moved in the pocket of her overalls. The smile fell from her face, and then the mask was set in place again. "Cool," she beamed, "anyway, I'd better take your orders, else Si will get annoyed. So, what'll it be?"

"A double bacon cheeseburger for me and a plate of fries for the biggun. Thank you," Dean paused and leaned forward to inspect the woman's nametag, "Calliope."

She jotted the order down in impeccable handwriting and smiled politely. "Thank you, boys. I'll be back in a minute" Sam watched as she walked away, his eyes pinned on her face. The smile held until she reached the counter; then it dropped and her voice became a muttered whisper.

"Eh, Dean…"

"What? She was nice, wasn't she? Do you think she'd give me her phone number?" Dean grinned stupidly and, not for the first time, Sam resisted the urge to punch him.

"Perhaps we should go."

"Go? We just got here! Oh, thanks, sweetheart." Calliope placed their order on the table and retreated. Looking at her again, Sam frowned. She looked normal. It was fine. He was just paranoid, of course he was, after everything they'd gone through, he was bound to see suspicious things in ordinary situations. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter." Sam turned back to the laptop, picking up a fry and popping it in his mouth. The door chimed as the two truckers walked out, and the diner was silent bar the smacking of Dean's lips and the tap of the keys. Soon, the burger was gone, and Sam's plate of chips was reduced to a full of golden crumbs. A few more taps of the keys, and an almighty sigh. "I'm getting nowhere," Sam said an hour or so after they arrived. He shook his head, closed the laptop and slid out of the booth. "Come on. Leave the money and let's go."

"I was hoping I could talk to Calliope, you know, talk to a local, you know?" Sam looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Right. No, ok. Hold on." Dumping a few notes and a smattering of coins on the table, Dean wriggled out of the booth and started walking with Sam. The air outside was hot and humid, too warm for the number of layers they both insisted on wearing.

"So, any ideas?"

"Nope, nothing. I've branched out into Roman myths but…" Sam trailed off and paused. "Do you hear that?"

Dean glanced around, his brow furrowed. "Eh, no. Is Lucifer-"

"No, no, this is different. It's, like, music. Don't you hear it?" Sam whirled round on the spot. They were standing on an unassuming pavement, surrounded by unassuming people. Beside them, an unassuming bench; in front of them, an unassuming park. No brass bands, no guitars, no flutes. So why…?

"Dean…"

_**The Reveal**_

_Sam: (nervously)_

Do I sound like I'm singing to you?

_Dean:_ What?

_Sam:_ Do I sound like I'm singing to you?

Maybe it's me, my messed up brain,

But…do I sound like I'm singing to you?

I'm trying to stop, trying in vain,

But…do you feel, spiralling through the air

A foot-tapping rhythm-_ (he makes to grab Dean's arm) _

_Dean:_ -Don't you even dare-

_Sam:_ Do I sound like I'm singing to you?

Trembling tenor, a sweeping song-

_Dean:_ Shit, I hear music, what do I do?

What if- Oh, crap, am I singing along?

You said she was a harpy, a banshee at best!

Not a witch, putting us through a musical test!

_Sam:_ I already checked, she wasn't a witch!

No mischief, no magic, no hexes or tricks

_Dean:_ This song's a scratch that I can't itch,

_Sam:_ Right, so that's not enough to give a witch her kicks!

Oh man, I do not like this,

Something's weird and wrong and amiss…

_Dean, obviously fighting the urge to dance: _

How can we fight when we're locked in song?

Stabbing to a happy, bouncing beat

No one can do it; no one's that strong!

Killing and singing is too mean a feat.

_(groaning)_ And it had to be a Broadway tune

Where most the men are gay and the ladies swoon…

_(Sam, meanwhile, has put the laptop on the bench and is typing to a furious beat)_

You know what singing does to you?

Over some days, it drives you insane,

Ruptures your lungs, slowly killing you.

Her victims are left writhing in pain.

Be it monster or god, it's plain cruel

To make a grown man sing and look like a fool

_(Instrumental as Sam continues to search online. Dean appears to be fighting the urge to dance again, and eventually succumbs, breaking into frantic tap dancing.)_

_Dean:_ Sam, come on, I'm wearing down my shoes!

_Sam:_ Shut up, there's too many sites to choose

_Dean:_ For God's sake; she can't be that hard to find

_Sam:_ I'm trying, but Google's being unkind

Wait, no - _(Sam reads and then laughs hysterically)_

So get this – what we're hunting's a Muse.

_(At those words, Sam turns the laptop around and the music stops abruptly, prompting Dean to collapse in exhaustion.)_


End file.
